Anger and Other Assorted Languages
by fadedrage
Summary: A suspect refuses to speak English, and Gibbs is Not Amused.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own NCIS or Supernatural, nor any characters affiliated with them. I do own some trail mix, though. Could use more M &Ms, but whatever.**

Gibbs was close to shooting someone. He could feel it. Every time the suspect had opened his mouth to utter more of that damned nonsense language, his hand twitched towards the gun he, unfortunately, could not take with him into the interrogation room.

"English, god dammit, _english_ ," he snarled, and the handsome young suspect's smirk that screamed that he knew exactly what he was doing and could choose to lapse into fluent english at any given moment flitted across his face, before the man uttered another sentence Gibbs couldn't understand.

Abruptly, Gibbs reared up and stalked out of the room, leaving the suspect to chatter at nothing in a language understood by no one. He needed coffee. Immediately. Quickly, he made his way to the break room, where he set about making the strongest cup of coffee possible. Several minutes later, his anger somewhat diminished through the feeding of his addiction, GIbbs went to the bullpen to drag Ziva to interrogation. Maybe she could make sense of the suspect's words.

"Ziva. Interrogation. Now." His voice left no room for arguments, and his agent trailed after him as he steamed back to interrogation. He stood back to let her enter first, then steered her by the shoulders into the seat facing the suspect and plopped her down.

"Translate," he growled out, then stood back with his arms crossed and glowered. The suspect watched all of this with amusement, laughter threatening to break from his lips.

The suspect trilled off something else, and Ziva turned around to face Gibbs, shaking her head.

"I am sorry, but I cannot make skulls or tails of this. It sounds closer to Spanish than anything else I know. Maybe Italian." She shrugged. "I do not know. Ask Tony, maybe." With that, she rose and escaped from the room where Gibbs' face was nearing a level red only seen on the most controversial of fruits: the tomato.

Tony himself was in the hallway as Ziva made her getaway. She shuffled past him with wide, slightly worried eyes, and Tony eyed the door with more trepidation. Slowly, he pushed it open and poked his head in, and indeed, the sight inside was worrisome. GIbbs looked closer to conniptions than Tony had ever gotten him, which actually made Tony somewhat resentful of the suspect with the woeful fashion sense. If he hadn't been wearing leather, plaid, boots, and jeans, he would have been someone handsome enough to whom Tony would relinquish the crown of Hottest Man to without too much complaint. The title was totally a thing. And, obviously, such an honour couldn't go to someone like McGeek. The Probie wouldn't know what to do with that type of power. And then Tony would have to duel him for it, Western style.

"I could beat Probie in a duel. The only way he'd win is if I was late for High Noon," he mused aloud, earning him a snort from the suspect and a silent promise of death from Gibbs. Tony shook himself out from that train of thought, and moved to stand next to Gibbs, not quite approaching the man cuffed to the table yet.

"Boss, my Spidey-Sense was tingling. You need me for anything?"

Gibbs stared at him for a moment before saying "Ziva thinks he might be speaking Italian."

Tony nodded, his eyes serious. "Got it. Your friendly neighborhood Italian is here to help." Gibbs snarled, no words needed for his command to get across, and Tony sat.

"Come ti chiami?" Tony asked.

"Da mihi sis crustum. Da mihi sis crustum. Crustum. Crustum. Crustum. No ? Quam de aqua . Fui ibi for-" the suspect rambled for a bit before Tony shook his head. Not Italian. Thus, not currently translatable. Even worse, no answers. Gibbs was stopped from exploding and taking out the entire NCIS building (that orange had to go, but explosion by Gibbs wasn't the best way) by Ducky, who appeared in the doorway, followed by a nervous Ziva.

"Oh my, Jethro. Ziva had initially gathered me to make sure you didn't have a stroke, but I must say, this is much more interesting. This young man appears to be speaking Latin. Why, this reminds me of a young man from West Germany in the 1980's. He had absolutely no interest in school, but his Latin was simply beautiful. He was fluent, too, and actually managed to save us from some quite serious trouble with the border police. We had been-"

"Ducky. Can you tell us _what the hell he is saying."_ Gibbs' harsh bark quashed the fantastic tangent Ducky had been about to go off on.

Ducky pursed his lips. "I am afraid not, Jethro. My latin is confined to what I learned from medical school many years ago."

The suspect had been watching with avid interest, and finally, he deigned to grace them with a common language.

"Okay, I'll tell you some stuff. But first, the good doctor here has to finish that story. Show of goodwill, I'll even give you my name. Winchester, like the rifle, Dean, like the James," Dean said, his eyes now fixed upon Ducky with avid curiosity, any thoughts of the ramifications of talking pushed to the side.

Gibbs growled wordlessly, then spun and strode out from interrogation, the population of which tracked him entering the viewing room by the slamming of various doors.

"I'd be only too happy to comply, my boy. This particular instance was quite nerve-rattling. It was the dead of night, and it was the fire that alerted the authorities to our presence in the first place."

Dean crossed his arms and sank into his chair, settling down the most interesting story he'd heard in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**I forgot context. I guess people like that, huh. Well, for this story, the setting is as follows: Sam is at Stanford, been gone for long enough that Dean can function and still be able to give his real name to federal agents and not be arrested, and John is being his John-ish self and dicking around, doing shit, probably. NCIS has Ziva instead of Kate, but no specific time. Also, Ducky's story originally wasn't going to be written, but I've decided to post it separately as a one-shot, no guarantees on a date for the postage though. We never hear Ducky's stories, so hopefully it'll live up to the vague references I make. I'll be straight up; I'm not good at updating consistently. I'm also not to amazing at keeping such a light tone for the whole story. I'll do my damndest to keep it funny, but I'm going to have to incorporate serious shiz if you want me to keep going with this, because this chapter alone was hard enough to write. I wrote the first one at 2 AM in the midst of a Coca-Cola induced sugar rush and intended for it to be a one-shot. But I posted it and forgot to mark it as complete, and like 20 people followed it, and I feel it is now my duty to continue this accidentally multi-chapter story. I'm posting this mostly to satiate you guys until I figure out a plan for an actual plot. Expect another update in the near future (read: it might be a while). Thank you for the kind reviews.**

 **I do not own Supernatural or NCIS, nor any characters affiliated with the show. Update on my snack situation, I have a ton of Cheez-Its. Addicting little buggers.**

Dean had been having a Bad Day. He had come across a person he hadn't killed, in a town he wasn't actually been looking for anyone to kill in, and got taken in for questioning. The whole Latin thing had been fun for a while. And he figured that the story Ducky was telling him more than made up for the other stuff.

"... And it was rather good he was there, otherwise I'm fairly sure I would have been charged with treason," Ducky finished brightly. Dean whistled and leaned back in his chair, which he'd been on the edge on for the majority of time Ducky had been speaking.

"That," he chuckled, "was one doozy of a story. I can't believe you actually did all that. And the thing with the goat, simply genius. Although I bet that that wasn't great for your relationship with Germany, huh?"

Ducky shuffled and coughed demurely into his fist. "Ah, yes, well, indeed, I have not been back to that particular area since, and I do doubt that either me or my companion would be welcomed back with open arms," he said with a small amount of embarrassment and a rather lot of pride. "And you, my boy, had better tell Jethro what you know before he breaks something."

Just as Ducky said that, a faint shattering could be heard coming from the viewing room. "Oh dear," he sighed, "that'll be his coffee mug. Empty, presumably. So before he breaks something else, that is. I'll leave you to it." With that, Ducky took his leave, just in time to avoid the ire of Gibbs.

Gibbs practically materialized in front of Dean, arms crossed, nostrils flared. Dean slouched back, put his boots up, and smiled wide.

"Agent Gibbs, after that story, I'd tell you about my potty training days. There's no need to be growly. Makes you look like my dad. Although, that might just be a marine thing," Dean mused, leaning his chair back onto two legs.

"Winchester, we had an agreement. Now start talking, or be charged with everything I can make stick," Gibbs said shortly.

"Ok, ok, geez, you need to get laid. The chick with the accent, she was pretty hot," Dean started to leer, but Gibbs' expression convinced him that he should get on with it. "Anyways, I was on my way back into the bar from settling a, shall we say, _misunderstanding_ between me and some sore losers from a game of pool, and I saw something reflective sticking out from under a dumpster. And as I consider it my duty to look at shiny things, I investigated. It was a watch, which happened to be attached to a dead guy. He hadn't been dead long, still looked like he might've been alive, so I checked for a pulse on his neck. One of the waitresses was throwin' some stuff in one of the other dumpsters, and she happened to see me leaning over some dude on the ground, so she freaked and called the cops. Cops found navy identification on him, so they called you, you took me in for questioning, and now here we are, me talkin' your ear off. Soon I might be booked, stripped, and searched," Dean grinned, "and you haven't even bought me dinner yet."

Gibbs stood stiffly, his mouth a hard line.

"What I got from that is that you were involved in a violent altercation over money at a scene where a man was found murdered." Gibbs' eyes glinted in what most people would not recognize as amusement. "And I won't be buying you cover food expenses for jails."

Dean leaned forward, his mouth open in an _O_ of mock surprise.

"Agent, did you just confess to tax evasion? If I'm not mistaken, your taxes should cover a little bit of that. And mine. How rude, making me pay for it myself. I'm classy, I deserve more respect than this," Dean said, mock outrage seeping into his voice.

"I think, so far, we've given you more respect than you deserve, Mr. Winchester. And as for you paying for it yourself, we'll be checking if you actually pay taxes."

Gibbs hadn't gotten anything else other than a few more mouthy comebacks after that, so he left Dean to stew in the interrogation room. He stopped a janitor to let him know someone had broken a mug in the viewing room (*cough*), and the glass needed to be cleaned up, before going back to the break room to replace his drink.

 **Okay, so from the time I wrote that authors note to right now, I ate all of the Cheez-Its. Like, the entire box. It's been maybe an hour. That was all I wanted to say.**


End file.
